


really love your peaches (wanna shake your tree)

by gutsforgarters



Series: knocking me out with those american thighs [4]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Mirror Sex, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters
Summary: Murphy turns up on Beth's doorstep clutching a sleek pink shopping bag and sporting a grin that reminds her irresistibly of the cat that ate the canary and then went back for seconds.
Relationships: Beth Greene/Murphy MacManus
Series: knocking me out with those american thighs [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647058
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	really love your peaches (wanna shake your tree)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/gifts).



> For Maj, my MacBeth co-conspirator, who deserves to be canonized as a saint herself after listening to me whine about this project for a literal month as I took far too long to write it. I hope it was worth the wait 💚
> 
> Title from "The Joker" by the Steve Miller Band.

Beth drops her backpack and toes off her sneakers, too exhausted to feel much more than the smallest spark of curiosity when she hears the distant hum of the TV turned down low. Amy’s pulling a shift at McGinty’s right now, and Jess’s gotten off to _wherever_ it is that she gets off to, but Beth doesn’t dial 911 or reach for her buck knife. It’s just like Murphy to drop by unannounced.

She gave him a copy of her key, anyway, because she doesn’t want him _or_ Connor picking the lock and incurring Amy’s frying pan-wielding wrath again. Of course, these days Amy tends to be a lot more forgiving of Connor at least, mostly because of all the orgasms he’s been giving her, but all the same, Beth’d rather not risk it.

God help them all if those two ever break up, Beth thinks, and nearly crosses herself on instinct because that’s what happens when you spend so much of your time around freaking _Catholics_.

And just as she predicted she would, she finds Murphy sprawled out on the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table, one hand stuffed in a bag of potato chips and the other fiddling restlessly with the remote. That’s the thing about Murphy: he can’t seem to stay still even when he’s sitting down.

His hand goes still on the remote when he spots Beth, though, face breaking into one of those smiles that never fails to make her chest go tight. He’s always just so openly happy to see her, like she makes his day just by existing in the same space as him, and she doesn’t know what she did to deserve someone who looks at her like that, but, God, she’s gonna try her best to keep doing it.

“You’re back early,” Murphy says, all pleased, pulling his hand out of the bag of chips and wiping it off on his jeans before reaching out to her, fingers crooked like he wants to hook them in her belt loops. She sidesteps him before he can pull her down onto the sofa with him, though, tapping the back of her hand against the side of his scuffed boot.

“Feet off the table,” she says, and can’t quite suppress her smug smile when he immediately does as she says without so much as a thwarted grumble. Amy likes to say that Beth’s got him well trained, and while Beth wouldn’t use those exact words herself, there’s some truth to the sentiment. “Dr. Greeley called in sick. Stomach flu.”

Murphy frowns. “There’s no chance she passed it along to you, is there?” He raises his hand like he wants to check her temperature. “C’mere.”

Beth bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m _fine_ , Nurse Nightingale. You can put the thermometer away.”

Murphy leans back and squints at her, assessing. “You’ve been spending too much time with Connor, mouthing off like that.”

Beth’s lips twitch. “Nah. I’ve always been like this, remember?” He should know; he’s the one who’s always calling her a _cheeky little brat_ like it’s a term of endearment, and coming from him, it probably is.

Murphy nods and concedes her point with a smirk. “As if I could fucking forget.”

Her smile breaks across her face in full force this time, then turns shy when she catches the way Murphy’s looking at her, fond and a little heated. She glances over her shoulder to see what’s playing on TV as a flimsy excuse to look away and give herself time to get it together, absentmindedly sliding her hands up the back of her shirt so she can undo her bra’s clasp. It’ll take more than shedding her bra to feel human, she knows, but it oughta be a good start.

She hears a muffled thud, like something just landed on one of the sofa cushions, and turns her head to find that the remote’s dropped from Murphy’s slack fingers. His eyes are glued to her, mouth hanging slightly open, and she tilts her head and slips her bra out from under her t-shirt.

“Somethin’ wrong?” she asks, and no sooner has she gotten the words out than Murphy pounces.

She’s not exaggerating, either, when she uses that word. He really does _pounce_ on her, uncoiling from his slouch on the sofa like he’s springing off his stool at McGinty’s to leap into a barfight, only he’s leaping at _her_ , cinching his arms around her waist and yanking her down, rolling them over so he’s on top, heavy body pinioning her to the velour cushions, tongue lodged halfway down her throat. One hand pins her wrist above her head like a butterfly to a corkboard, and the other squeezes between them to undo her fly, blunt fingernails scraping the mound of her cunt through her panties.

She kisses him back instinctively, because she’s surprised, yeah, but it’s not an _unpleasant_ surprise. No, there’s nothing unpleasant at all about the rough scratch of Murphy’s beard on her face or his quick, clever fingers pulling her zipper down onehanded and sneaking past her panties’ waistband to tease her slit and make her tingle all over like she just licked the live end of a battery.

“ _Murphy_ ,” she gasps when he lets her up for air, just that, just his name, and she can feel his groan in her own vocal cords because he’s latched his mouth onto her throat to give her one of those hickeys that he loves seeing on her skin. She laughs, breathless, at the tickle of his facial hair, but that laugh breaks apart around another gasp when his fingers find her clit and smear her come around to slick the way. “What— _umph_ —what brought this on, huh?”

“I really need a reason?” he mumbles, and it’s hard to tell, what with his face being buried in her throat, but she thinks he sounds a bit _annoyed_ with her. He lets go of her wrist to shove his hand beneath her t-shirt instead, squeezing her breast and scraping his rough thumb across her stiff nipple. “Always fucking want you, girl, you fucking know that.”

Hearing him say that does as much for her as his lips and hands do, gets her toes curling hard enough to cramp because it’s _true_ ; he really _does_ want her that much, and she still can’t quite believe it.

“Well,” she says, “yeah, but—”

But, what? She forgets, because Murphy’s sliding off of her, taking his lips and his hands and his heat with him, and she whines, frustrated and a little sulky, but he just laughs at her, at her frustration, as he gets on his knees in front of the sofa and starts tugging her jeans down her hips.

“Yeah?” He slicks his tongue up her bared hipbone, and she curls her fingers in his hair and _pulls_ , trying to get him where she _needs_ him to go, but he’s stronger than her and stubborner than her, and he’s not going anywhere he doesn’t damn well feel like going. “Got something to say, have you? What is it, sweetheart?” He plants a chain of hot, openmouthed kisses across her abdomen, the whiskers on his chin tickling her, and hooks his fingers in her sticky-wet panties. “G’on, then, tell me.”

This _bastard_. Beth pants and thrashes and yanks at his hair, practically growling through her bared teeth like an angry cat, but she gets sidetracked when she hears cotton tearing, eyes flying wide open to watch in mute horror as her panties go fluttering to the floor in two separate pieces.

“God _dammit_ , Murphy!”

He just grins up at her, unrepentant. “I’ll buy you a new pair,” he promises her, and then his tongue’s between her legs, hot and fierce and eating her from the cunt up, and she’s too busy hanging on for dear life to stay mad.

* * *

Murphy turns up on her doorstep the following afternoon, clutching a sleek pink shopping bag and sporting a grin that reminds Beth irresistibly of the cat that ate the canary and then went back for seconds. She nearly shuts the door in his face just for that, but she’s too curious about that little pink shopping bag to follow through, and Murphy steps over the threshold before she can try, anyway.

“Told you I’d buy you a new pair,” he says, dropping a kiss onto her cheek and thrusting the bag into her hands. “G’on, then, love. Open it.”

It takes Beth a minute to catch onto what he’s talking about. She’d sort of forgotten about what he’d done to her underwear, actually, probably because he’d done such a good job of sucking her brains out through her clit. She’s lucky she remembers her own name after that.

She untangles the bag’s handles from around her wrist and handles the delicate wisps of fuchsia tissue paper like she’s defusing a live bomb set to go off in T-minus ten seconds, peeling them carefully apart till she gets to what’s nestled at the bottom of the bag. Her eyebrows just about touch her hairline when she sees what it is.

 _Well_ , then.

“These aren’t exactly cotton boy shorts,” is all she says, even as her cheeks prickle at the thought of Murphy picking these out with her specifically in mind. Jesus, but this man’s bad for her blood pressure.

When she can finally bring herself to meet his eyes, she finds that he’s watching her intently in that way he does, a half smile lingering on his lips, head cocked at an angle. He chafes his thumb against the scruff on his chin, says, “Not to your taste, then?”

“I didn’t say _that_. It’s just. You didn’t have to buy me these.”

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but these are expensive. They are, aren’t they?” She frowns down at the bag. “They _look_ expensive.” She looks back up, eyeballs Murphy. “Where’s the receipt?”

He shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Chucked it in the bin. Didn’t need the fucking thing, did I?”

Oh, for the love of God. “Why are you like this?”

He grins the same unrepentant grin he wore when he ripped her panties to shreds. “My mam’s been asking the same damn question for thirty-odd years, now.” He unearths a pack of Carroll’s from his pocket but doesn’t light up because Beth won’t let him smoke in the apartment. Just tucks a cigarette between his teeth and chews on the filter, then jerks his chin at the bag. “G’on, then. Try ’em on, at least. You don’t like ’em, you don’t have to keep them, alright?”

Beth squints at him, contemplating refusal, but the receipt’s gone, and Murphy probably wouldn’t return them even if it wasn’t. It’s not that she objects to him buying her presents—that’s what couples do, right? They do nice things for each other—but she absolutely _does_ object to him spending a disproportionate amount of money on what _should’ve_ been a simple replacement for a pair of cotton panties that she bought in a five-dollar ten pack at Walmart.

One thing’s for sure, anyway, and it’s that Amy can _never_ find out about any of this. She’s been calling Murphy Beth’s sugar daddy ever since he first tipped her an obscene amount of money on the job, and she doesn’t need the ammunition.

She sighs, and she can tell from the look on Murphy’s face that he knows he’s won this battle. “Fine, but only so you quit buggin’ me about it.” She crosses her arms, the shopping bag bumping her hip, and drawls, “Don’t suppose you want me to model ’em for you, huh?”

Beth can feel the look Murphy gives her like teasing fingertips on her bare skin, leaving her flushed and tingling all over. “Want to make sure they fit, don’t I?”

“Yeah, sure you do. Real altruistic of you.” 

His grin widens, flashing sharp canine teeth. “It sure the fuck is, love.”

Beth rolls her eyes and heads off toward her bedroom, but when she hears Murphy following her, she tosses a warning frown over her shoulder and says, “Stay out here till I tell you to come in.”

“No bloody fun at all, are you?”

Beth’s mouth hikes up at one corner. “Now you _know_ that ain’t true, MacManus.”

Murphy’s mouth pops open, then snaps back shut, and Beth darts into her bedroom and locks the door before he can grab her and pin her to the nearest flat surface. Not that she’d mind much if he did, but he wanted her to try on what he bought her, didn’t he? Far be it from her not to indulge the man.

She sets the bag down on the foot of the bed and starts stripping, shivering a little when the cool air puckers her nipples and licks goosebumps across the surface of her skin. In the interest of getting back to Murphy so he can warm her up, she wastes no time in breaking off tags and shimmying into her new underwear, spinning around to take a look at herself in the mirror that’s mounted over her dresser.

Well. It’s nothing _too_ intricate, anyway—she didn’t have to take a minute to figure out how to put it on—just a matching bra and panty set. Except there’s no _just_ about it, is there?

The frothy coral lace brings out the pink in her cheeks, and the bra’s demi cups heft what little she’s got up top and gives her a hint of cleavage, which she can just imagine Murphy licking between. The panties are hipsters, and when she twists around to look at herself from the back, she sees that they hug her ass like they were made for her.

Yeah. They definitely fit alright. Murphy’ll be happy about that.

And she looks pretty. Usually she doesn’t bother with fancy underwear, because what’s the point? Even when she’s sleeping with someone, it doesn’t really matter, because it’s not like they’re gonna stay on for long.

But before Murphy, it’d been a good long while since she’d spared a thought for _pretty_ , between school and work and grieving for her mom and brother. And she understands that being pretty’s one of the least important things a person can be, but she likes feeling good about herself, and the underwear Murphy bought for her does that. It makes her feel good.

Beth smiles at her reflection and toys with her ponytail, then twists her hair tie onto her wrist and combs out her hair so it curls loosely around her shoulders, the ends teasing the gentle curves of her breasts. Murphy likes it when she wears her hair up, likes tugging on her braids and ponytails when he kisses her, but he also likes it down, likes to run his fingers through it and loop it around his knuckles. Likes to run his fingers over other parts of her, too.

Along with feeling pretty, though, she feels a little nervous—but it’s the _good_ kind of nervous, like how she’d felt during their first night together. It fills her stomach with giddy bubbles and makes her nipples stand out hard through her bra’s cups like somebody’s been lapping at them, red and fat like the maraschino cherries she used to fish out of her milkshakes and suck on like candy.

She connects the word _sucking_ to _Murphy_ and has to take another moment to compose herself before unlocking the door and easing it open.

“Alright. You can come in, I guess.”

Murphy was slumped against the wall opposite the door when Beth opened it, unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear and legs crossed at the ankles, but he stands up straight when he sees Beth. He looks at her, blinks, and does a double take.

And then he just…stares.

“Um.” Beth fiddles with a lock of her hair and chafes her foot against her ankle. It really is chilly in here; she should check the thermostat. “You okay there?” She crosses her arms and tries to summon a teasing smile. “I didn’t break you, did I?”

Murphy doesn’t answer her half-joking question—just snaps his mouth shut with a click and closes the space between them in two big strides, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her half off her feet so her head spins and a breathless shriek erupts from her throat.

“ _Murphy_! What’re you— _oof_.”

The wind gets knocked right out of her when her back hits the mattress, and then Murphy squeezes what little breath she had left from her lungs when he pins her with his weight, eager wet mouth covering hers, his hand cupping her cunt through her new panties. The lace drags across her clit in a way that’s this side of uncomfortable, and she wriggles and squirms and hooks her thumbs in the waistband, trying to get them _off_ —

But then there’s an all-too-familiar tearing sound and cool air whipping across her exposed cunt, and she rips her mouth away from Murphy’s to look down between them.

“Oh my God,” she says, the words edged with a disbelieving laugh. “Did you seriously just—?”

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” Murphy says, just like he had the last time, and then he’s got two fingers inside of her, thumb grinding down on her clit, breath hot and ragged in her ear. “C’mon, sweetheart. Come for Daddy, huh? Wanna feel it, Beth, c’mon.”

And, well. There’s no thinking with her upstairs brain once he starts up with the _Daddy_ stuff—as if his fingers thrusting inside of her weren’t enough to do the job, _Jesus_ —and she figures if he wants to waste money on underwear that he promptly destroys, then that’s his problem, not hers.

Yeah, she thinks, toes curling as the pressure between her legs grows heavy and hot. Who the hell is she to complain?

* * *

Okay, so maybe she’s got one or two complaints, after all.

It was kind of funny at first, not to mention hot—and it still is hot, because how could Murphy wanting her bad enough to just rip the clothes right off of her _not_ be?—but Beth’s not really laughing anymore. No, it mostly stopped being funny right around the fifth pair of torn panties.

They’re up to nine sets of destroyed lingerie now, and frankly, it’s starting to get ridiculous. Nine sets of expensive lingerie in a rainbow of colors, and Murphy’s torn each and every one of them to shreds like they’re worth no more than the cotton panties that started all this. Beth thinks it’s all that wasted money that’s _really_ getting to her.

Well, alright. Maybe not _just_ that.

Beth surveys herself in her dresser mirror, hands on her hips, lower lip fastened between her teeth. Today’s set of lingerie looks much the same as the very first—demi cup bra, hipster panties, all of it edged with slightly itchy lace—only it’s sunshine yellow instead of coral pink. Beth thinks it might be her favorite set so far, mostly because of the color, and she does _not_ want to see it get ripped to pieces like all the rest.

She and Murphy are probably due for a talk. Not _the_ Talk, hopefully not ever, but still. A talk.

It’s possible that she should’ve waited to put these on until after they had that talk, though, ’cause she’s not sure if Murphy’ll even hear a word she says when she’s dressed—or undressed—like this.

She thinks about pulling her clothes back on over her lingerie, but then Murphy knocks on her bedroom door and says, “Alright in there, love?” in a concerned kinda voice, so she settles for tugging on her sweatshirt—it just barely hits the top of her thighs, because it really is hers and not something she stole from Murphy—and flips her hair out from under the collar before heading over to unlock the door.

Murphy was frowning when she opened the door, and that frown only deepens when he gets a good look at her, cutting fine lines into his handsome face. He snags hold of her sleeve, the metal of his claddagh ring cool against the side of her wrist. He doesn’t say anything, just studies her like he’s trying to figure her out.

Seeing him frown like that just makes her even more anxious, and he must read it in her face or feel it in her skipping pulse, because he slides his hand up her arm and into her hair, cups the nape of her neck and chafes his thumb against her skin.

“Underwear didn’t meet with your approval, then?” He smiles in that way he does when he’s trying to coax her into smiling, too, and it works, sort of, but it doesn’t do much to assuage her anxiety. “Not fond of the color?”

“No, I, uh. I like yellow.”

“Yeah, I remember.” His fingernails scratch her scalp, and her eyelids try to droop. “Just wanted to make sure. Fits alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s—” Oh, Jesus, she really can’t _think_ when he’s touching her like this. Can’t think when he touches her, period. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Then what’s got you looking like that?”

Beth breaks eye contact, which is probably a bad move, but she can’t _help it_ , alright? God, she could use half a Xanax and a long nap right about now. “Like—like what?”

Murphy tucks his thumb under her chin and nudges up her face till she’s got no choice but to at least look in his general direction. He doesn’t answer her question, but he doesn’t have to.

Jesus, _fine_.

“It’s just—do you like it better when I’m wearing fancy underwear?”

“I—” Murphy’s hand falls away from her to hang limp at his side. His fingers twitch. “What?”

Well, how about that. Murphy MacManus, at a loss for words. She’d probably want to commemorate this moment if she weren’t so preoccupied with backpedaling.

“It—never mind.” She crosses her arms over her breasts, underwire cutting into her skin from the pressure. “It’s not important.”

Murphy’s dumbstruck expression twists into a scowl. “If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t’ve fucking brought it up, would you?”

He’s got her there. “Yeah, well, I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“You’re the one who started it,” Murphy retorts, and normally Beth’d accuse him of being juvenile, except, well. He’s kind of got a point. “You think I only wanna fuck you when you’re wearing expensive lingerie, is that it? Is that what you’re fucking saying here, love?”

Yeah, put that way, it _does_ make her sound like an insecure little girl. But that’s not too far off from the truth, is it?

She shrugs unevenly, one shoulder coming up higher than the other. “I mean, you never got worked up enough to actually physically tear my clothes _off_ of me _before_.”

Murphy turns red in that way that always makes her worry about his blood pressure. “The first time I tore your fucking clothes _off_ of you, you were wearing fucking cotton knickers!”

Yeah, okay. That’s probably fair. It also makes her feel like even more of an idiot. She rubs her hands against her arms and wishes she was wearing pants to help protect her from the chill.

“Yeah,” she mumbles. She ducks her head and thinks it’s just too bad that she’s not wearing her hair loose; she’d like to hide behind it. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry.”

“Hey, now.” Murphy’s arms slide around her and tug her into his chest, and she melts into him immediately, hiding her face in the crook of his neck so he can’t see her lips wobble. “What the hell are you sorry for? Didn’t do anything wrong, did you?”

Beth shrugs again and uncoils her crossed arms so she can wrap them around his waist. “Iunno. You tell me.”

He rubs his hands up and down her back, soothing the tension out of her spine. “Well, then, if you’re asking _me_ , I don’t reckon you’ve ever done a single fucking thing wrong in your entire life.”

Beth laughs, and if it comes out sounding a bit unsteady, at least it’s also genuine. “I ain’t no saint, Mr. MacManus.”

Murphy hums, thoughtful, and digs his fingers into the nape of her neck, taking care of the remainder of the tension that she was carrying in her shoulders.

“Better for me, then.” He presses his lips to her ear and grazes his teeth across the tip. “Saints don’t fuck.” 

“ _Murphy_.” Beth tries to sound stern, but she can’t quite contain her giggle. “You’re definitely gonna have to go to confession for that one, jeez.”

“Oh, aye.” His fingertips graze the swell of her ass but don’t drop any lower, a tease. “And quite a few other things too, I think.”

Beth rocks back to look him in the face, still trying in vain to be stern even as _her_ hands start to wander down his abdomen. “Oh, is that right?”

Murphy nods solemnly. “Yeah,” he says, and kisses the very corner of her mouth. “That’s right.”

As much as Beth wants to turn it into a real kiss, she’s still got some lingering doubts insecurities she needs to put to rest. He good as told her that she had nothing to worry about, but she still wants to hear him say it in as many words.

“So, um.” She fiddles with his collar, knuckles bumping his rosary beads. “The fancy underwear had nothin’ to do with it, right?”

He curls his hand around her wrist, and Beth’s heart just about melts when he bends his head to kiss the claddagh ring he gave her. He’s always doing that, but every time hits her just as hard as the first.

“Well,” he allows, the mouth that just kissed her ring tipping into a cheeky grin, “not _nothing_ to do with it. Lace looks good on you, love.”

God, what a pain in her butt. “You try wearing it, see how much you like it _then_ ,” she grumbles, but she can’t help but smile just like she couldn’t help but laugh. He just makes her so _happy_ , even when he’s getting on her last nerve.

“Nah. I’d rather see it on you.” He cups her face in his hands and kisses her fully on the mouth, beard scratching her cheeks, the tip of his tongue slicking across her lower lip. He’s not joking at all anymore when he says, quiet and fierce so she has no choice but to believe every word he says, “You’re fucking perfect, Beth, alright? Tell you as much every day, don’t I?”

She nods a little unsteadily, because, well, his tongue had been so _hot_ and _wet_ and she really wants to feel it on other parts of her. “Um—yeah. Yeah, you do. Sorry. I know I’m bein’ stupid.”

“Fuck that,” he says, and kisses her again like he’s trying to convince her of what he’s saying with his body as well as his words. “You’re not fucking _stupid_ , alright, don’t fucking call yourself that.”

Beth’s tingling lips quirk at the corners. “Sorry.”

“And stop fucking apologizing. Already told you, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

Beth rolls her eyes to high heaven, and hardly even jumps when Murphy pinches her on the butt because she saw _that_ one coming. “Yeah, alright. Got any other orders for me while you’re at it?”

The only apt way of describing Murphy’s answering grin is _wolfish_ , flashing teeth that she just knows he wants to sink into all the soft parts of her, fancy underwear or no.

“Yeah. Reckon I do.” He grabs the hem of her sweatshirt, inches it up her thighs. “Think I’ll start with telling you to take this bloody thing the fuck off.”

Beth’s pulse is hammering in her throat and between her legs, and Murphy probably _knows_ it, too, but she still says, “ _Tellin’_ me, huh?”

His hand’s _under_ her shirt now, palming her hip. He’s close, _so close_ , to where she’s already hot and wet for him.

“That’s right.” He thumbs the mound of her cunt and dips lower, seeking out her clit by feel. “Take the fucking thing off.”

He finds the cleft of her pussy and presses down on her swollen clit, and she jerks in his arms like he just stuck her with a pin, fumbling at her shirt and whipping it off over her head, hair crackling with static and skin breaking out in a wave of goosebumps when it’s exposed to the cool air.

She hardly gets a chance to shiver, though, before Murphy’s dragging her back in and surrounding her with the heat that comes off of him like a furnace. He wraps one hand around the base of her ponytail so he can haul her head back on her neck and kiss the life out of her while his other hand dives past her lacy waistband and slides between her legs with a wet, tacky noise that would’ve embarrassed the hell out of her in another life, before this man who she loves so much taught her that there’s no shame at all in wanting another person as badly as they want each other.

No, it doesn’t embarrass her. It just makes her moan, because she _knows_ it drives Murphy crazy when she gets this wet for him, which is always, and she knows what a desperate, feverish Murphy means for her.

It means she’s gonna come so hard she’ll see Jesus. 

“ _Fuck_.” Murphy bites the word out against her lips, baring those wolfish teeth. He pushes two thick fingers into her at once, wet and easy, and Beth’s legs shake so hard they’d probably buckle if she weren’t suspended in Murphy’s arms. “Hardly fucking touched you and you’re already soaked. Want me that bad, huh, sweetheart? Want me to fuck this wet pussy?”

This would’ve embarrassed her too, once, hearing him say all these filthy things to her without an ounce of shame to hold him back, telling her every last thing that’s on his mind because he doesn’t have much in the way of a filter even when his hand _isn’t_ down her pants, but all it does now is make her even wetter, gushing into his palm and trickling clear down his wrist so he’ll probably be soaked down to the elbow by the time he’s finished fingering her.

“Uh-huh.” His fingers curl, and so do her toes, locking up tight enough to cramp. She sucks his lower lip into her mouth and palms him through his jeans, giving as good as she gets because she wants him to moan, too. “Yeah, Murphy, just you. I want it right now, c’mon.”

He shoves his dick against her palm and moans the way she wanted him to, but his thumb on her clit doesn’t falter, not for a second. He pulls his lip free from her teeth with a damp pop and buries his face in the crook of her neck, sucking a fresh bruise where everyone can see because he _wants_ them to see, and she wants it, too. She wants people to know that he’s the one who did that to her.

“Fucking impatient.” He breaks the seal of his mouth and pushes his tongue against the forming bruise, this side of painful. Even if he doesn’t tear her panties this time, they’ll still be ruined, stiff and stained with her come. “I’ll fuck you when I bloody well feel like it, girl, and not a second sooner.”

“Yeah?” She squeezes him through his jeans, feels him hard and straining against his zipper. “Think you _do_ feel like it.”

She’s got a good inkling to as to what’s gonna happen next, because it’s the same thing that always happens when she mouths off at him during sex, but she’s still a little surprised when he pushes her toward the dresser and not the bed, spinning her around to face the mirror. She braces her hands against the dresser’s smooth surface as she tries to get her bearings, blinking dazedly at her own flushed reflection.

Murphy tucks himself in behind her, snapping her waistband against the small of her back before tugging down her bra’s cups so her breasts pop out, scooped up high by the underwire and flushed just as pink as her face, nipples gone all maraschino cherry red. Her golden cross dangles like a pendulum between them, a reminder that what they’re doing is sanctioned by God no matter how profane it may seem, that there’s no sin where there’s love. 

“Feel like teaching you a fucking lesson, is what I feel like doing.” He trails his fingers down the curve of her ass, deceptively gentle, before hauling off and giving it an open-palmed smack. She looks into the mirror and watches her reflection jump. “Keep giving me cheek and I won’t fuck you at all, you little brat.”

Beth _knows_ that’s not true, that he’ll fuck her so long as she _wants_ him to fuck her, and he contradicts himself anyway when he pulls the crotch of her panties aside to slick two fingers right back into her, pumping them in and out and _fucking her with them_ , but she still plays along, still shakes her head and moans piteously, nails chipping flakes of paint off the dresser when she claws them into the wood.

“ _No_. No, Murphy, c’mon.” She rocks forward on her toes, bends her head so she doesn’t have to see herself in the mirror, so she doesn’t have to watch her face twist and crumple in reaction to the things he’s doing to her. “C’mon, Daddy, _please_.”

“Please, what?” He drapes himself flush along her bowed back, drags his tongue up her neck and latches his teeth in her ear. He sucks on the lobe, frees it with a pop like the sound of his lip pulling out from between _her_ teeth, taps her ass with the hand that’s not buried up to the knuckles in her cunt. “C’mon, love, use your words. Tell Daddy what you want.”

 _God_ , she’s gonna get him back for this. But _he’s_ the one who’s got _her_ pinned right now, and for now, she likes it that way, so she gives him what he wants because it’s also what _she_ wants.

“Want you to fuck me.” She never used to talk like this, not ever, not even during sex, but Murphy brings it out of her as easily as he erases any shame she might have otherwise felt. “Want you all the time, Daddy, please.”

He was kissing her neck while he fingerfucked her, as overeager and sloppy as if he were licking between her legs, but now he trades his licks for bites, sharp and stinging like he’s reprimanding her.

“Could have me all the time,” he tells her, letting off her smarting neck to mouth the words against her ear, “if you’d just quit that fucking job of yours and let me take care of you.”

“Not—” He drags his fingers out of her cunt and rubs them against her tingling clit, rolling it around like a bead. “Gonna—” Her muscles clench and seize and release, her orgasm coming sharp and sudden and warping her voice into something deep and guttural, like it’s not even her that’s speaking, like she’s possessed. “ _Happen_.”

Her legs are as good as jelly, but between Murphy at her back and the dresser at her front, she stays standing, if slumped over and trembling. Murphy cups her cheek with the hand that was inside her, tracking her own come all across her skin, and drags her face around for a kiss, tongue pushing into her mouth, beard scratching her.

When he breaks the kiss and leans back far enough to whip off his shirt and undo his jeans, she figures that her pretty yellow underwear’s about to go the same way as the rest, but there’s no sound of ripping cloth as Murphy lines himself up, no scraps of lace fluttering in pieces to the floor. He just drags her panties down her legs, helping her step out of them before standing back up, one hand cupping her hip while the other guides his dick into her pussy, all wet and loose and welcoming from her orgasm.

She hasn’t quite finished coming, either, muscles still flexing through her aftershocks, and Murphy grunts into her shoulder when he feels her clenching around him, hand tightening on her hip. The crucifix on the end of his rosary bumps the small of her back.

“There’s my girl.” He pulls halfway out and pushes back in, starting off slow and easy as a concession to how small she is compared to him. He tangles his fingers in her hair and tugs her head up, and she screws her eyes shut before she can see herself in the mirror, embarrassed. “Ah-ah, sweetheart, none of that. Want you to watch us, g’on.”

Jesus, is he serious? But of course he is—why else would he have turned her around to face the mirror?—and even though Beth was just thinking that being with Murphy put much of her sense of shame to rest, apparently she’s still got just enough left to not want to watch herself while she’s having sex. That’s like—that’s like watching a homemade porn movie, and she’s always hated porn. She’d probably hate it even more if she was starring in it.

“C’mon, love.” The hand on her hip dips lower, teases her tingling clit until she’s squirming on his cock from the overstimulation, and he bares his teeth against her shoulder in what she _knows_ is a self-satisfied grin. “So fucking beautiful like this, Beth, you deserve to fucking see it.”

He lets go of her ponytail and smooths his hand down her spine, unsnapping her bra’s clasp so it falls down her arms and eases some of the strain on her already too-tight lungs, and she releases her death grip on the dresser long enough to shake it the rest of the way off. Soon as she does, she braces herself again, because Murphy’s hips are moving faster now, and she’ll concuss herself on the mirror if she doesn’t.

The smack he lands on her clit shocks her into looking up, and then it’s too late. She meets her own eyes in the mirror, pupils yawning so wide she can’t see any blue, and then she sees _Murphy’s_ eyes staring at her from over her shoulder, hot and avaricious, and she can’t look away, as trapped as a rabbit in a snare.

His lips quirk when he catches her looking at him, and he presses a kiss to her shoulder, still holding her eyes.

“That’s my good girl.” He tracks a line of kisses up the side of her neck till his lips find her cheek, sweet and chaste. He’s holding onto her hips with both hands now, guiding her into a steady rhythm that she can feel in the backs of her clenched teeth. “Look at how fucking perfect you are, g’on.”

And the thing is, Beth believes that _Murphy_ believes that she’s perfect, but even with him murmuring filthy praise in her ear, she doesn’t believe it for herself. And that’s okay, actually, because she might not be perfect on her own, but they’re perfect _together_ , and where once she was too embarrassed to look, now she refuses to so much as blink for fear of missing something.

Her biceps are tensed, muscles standing out against her skin like they’ve been carved there by a sculptor, framing her swaying breasts that in turn frame her dangling cross. The dresser’s low-slung enough that she can see her hips pushing forward as Murphy pushes _into_ her, can see the flushed length of his dick all wet and gleaming with her come spreading her red pussy lips apart. And you’d think that would be the most erotic part of all this, but no.

No.

What really hits her like a kick between the legs is the look on her face, mouth slack and drooling, lips flushed as red as her pussy from the pressure of their earlier kisses, forehead crumpled with what would look like agony if she didn’t know better. And Murphy, Murphy’s broad body folded over hers, thick biceps flexing; teeth flashing as his lips peel back around a grunt; fair skin stained a dark, lurid pink from the strain of wanting her.

She could come just from watching them.

 _Could_ , but she still needs to help herself along a little, still needs direct stimulation to her pulsing clit, so she fumbles a hand between her legs only for Murphy to smack it aside with a growl and replace it with his own.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Wanna come again? Know you do, Beth, c’mon.” He groans into her shoulder, his slack mouth painting her skin with spit. “Wanna feel it on my dick, Beth, give it to me.”

She does. _God_ , she does, hips slanting forward with the force of her orgasm and probably bruising her abdomen on the edge of the dresser, but she _doesn’t care_ , doesn’t care about anything but for the pounding in her cunt and the sound of Murphy’s agonized groan as he hits his peak, too, dick pulsing inside of her before he pulls out at the last minute, come splattering on her bedroom floor.

She’s probably gonna be annoyed about that later.

She slumps across the dresser as she comes down, legs shaking, and she’s just about to ask Murphy to help her to the bed when he readjusts his hold on her hips and yanks them back, and anything she would’ve _thought_ to ask drains out of her head when he gets on his knees behind her and seals his mouth over her cunt.

This time, she comes so hard she’s pretty sure she really _does_ see Jesus.

* * *

Beth doesn’t call “Who is it?” when she hears the front door open and shut, because Amy’s staying with Connor for the night, and because the footsteps coming down the hallway are too heavy to belong to Jess. She just smiles at Murphy when he slouches into view, and then muffles a laugh when she notices the grouchy look on his face.

“That bad, huh?” she asks, trying for sympathetic only for a giggle to escape, after all. Murphy frowns harder, drops down beside her on the sofa, and flicks her on the nose.

“Reckon I might have to invest in soundproof walls,” he grumbles, and this time, Beth doesn’t even try to contain her laughter.

“Nah.” She tucks herself into his side and kisses him on his scruffy cheek, and for all his grouching and grumbling, he’s still quick to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her even closer. “Why bother? You always come over here when they get too loud, anyway. In fact,” she goes on, mock seriously, “I think I should start chargin’ you rent.”

Murphy’s frown reverses course and tips into a smirk. He smooths his hand down her arm, palms her hip.

“That’s a grand idea there, sweetheart. Would you prefer your payments in cash or sexual favors?” 

Beth smacks him on the chest, and he doesn’t even have the grace to pretend to wince. “You’re the _worst_.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees, and presses a closed-mouth kiss to her lips. “And you’re stuck with me, aren’t you?”

She fails at trying not to smile. “Guess I am.”

He gives her lips another peck, then pulls back and tucks a hand into his coat. “Speaking of what’s owed, I believe these’ll make a fine replacement for those knickers I ruined.”

 _Another_ set of lingerie? Beth thought he’d gotten that out of his system. “Why? So you can tear these ones to shreds, too?”

“Left those pretty yellow things in one piece, didn’t I?”

Yeah, and she’s still not sure if he did that just to prove that he’s capable of restraint, or because he knows that yellow’s her favorite color. Maybe a little bit of both?

Murphy offers her his latest purchase, and she looks down, expecting another pink shopping bag with fuchsia tissue paper sticking out the top—only to be confronted with a five-pack of cotton boy shorts.

Beth looks at the underwear. Looks at Murphy. Blinks.

He shrugs, casual, but the way he’s smiling at her is anything but. “No matter what you’re wearing, sweetheart, I’m always happy to tear it off you.”

Beth lets out a startled laugh even as her heart leaps into her throat. She accepts the pack of underwear and says, “You want me to model these for you, too?”

Murphy grins and gives her ponytail an affectionate tug. “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
